


Damaged

by CalicoThunder



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Coming Out, Coming Out to Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gay Keith (Voltron), Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, Keith being supportive, M/M, One Shot, heavy angst with a happy ending, not much fluff here sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 11:29:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8889109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalicoThunder/pseuds/CalicoThunder
Summary: Lance's worst nightmare is realized when his father casts him out of the house for coming out as bi, and as a result, his mind and body end up running away from his control, and he knows he's gonna lose it-Until Keith fucking Kogane comes along, at midnight on a Friday.





	

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for blatant/strong homophobia, homophobic slurs, a teeny tiny mention of blood and an even smaller mention of suicidal thoughts.

“What did you just say?” 

 

The gruff question floats into the atmosphere of the living room, waiting to be anchored by Lance’s answer. Lance fidgets where he stands in the doorway, unable to keep his eyes on his father’s face where it’s half illuminated by the television and a dim glow from the kitchen. 

 

“I said, um. I said…” Lance trails off when he hears his voice quaver. 

 

_ Now’s not the time to be weak, you’re already here- just do it.  _

 

“I said I’m gay, dad.” 

 

The silence is so thick that Lance thinks he’ll drown in it, choke and die on it while his father and family sleep on easy through the night. The television keeps on casting the room in an eerie blue-white, flashing occasionally like a muted thunderstorm. 

 

His father remains speechless, looking at Lance with his face stoic, as usual. 

 

“Dad?” Lance squeaks, fingers curled into the hem of his tank top in an anxious grip. “I said-”

 

“I heard you, Lance.” says his father, and his voice rumbles low in his throat like a growl. Lance feels his body freeze over at the tone. “Moira! Moira, could you come down here?” He yells towards the stairs, finally rising from his seat on the couch. 

 

Lance thinks he hears the beginning of rainfall outside, but it’s hard to tell with the sounds of his mother shuffling around upstairs. He tries to keep his face calm and controlled- but he knows his dad, he knows his dad’s looks, and right now Thomas McClain looks anything but happy. The ice in Lance’s body remains. 

 

A few more seconds of shuffling from the floorboards above them, Thomas eyeing his son like a stranger from the bottom of the stairs, and Lance keeping his bare feet glued firmly to the carpet, before, “Jesus, I’m too old for these steps- what’s happening, Tom?” Lance’s mother says as she enters, stopping on the third to last stair and leaning onto the banister. 

 

“Lance.” Tom says, not looking at his son. Lance doesn’t register his name for a moment, as that ice in his gut thaws into dread. 

 

_ I knew this was dumb.  _

 

“Lance!” and Lance’s head snaps to attention, looking at his sweet, round-faced mother and her beautiful tan skin, wrapped around a warm heart- all things supposedly passed on to him. “Tell your mother,” Tom continues, “what you told me just now.”

Lance can feel the tears prickling at the brim of his eyelids like a million tiny needles, because  _ this wasn’t how it was supposed to go-  _

 

“I’m gay, mama.” He says after a deep, shuddering breath. He almost laughs at the minor notion that he’s being  _ brave _ and  _ honest  _ in the back of his mind _ , _ as if saying it again was some sort of resolution. His father looks perturbed. 

 

“Oh, Lance…” His mother sighs, and he’s not sure if she’s more disappointed or dissatisfied judging by the look she gives her husband. 

 

“Since when, Lance?” Tom says, voice not louder but definitely more present, filling the room. He still doesn’t look at Lance’s face. 

 

“It’s not like that, dad, it’s always-” 

 

“Mijo. Be honest with him.” Moira says in warning, and the final bough breaks in Lance’s chest. 

 

_ She backs him up like she always does.  _

 

“I am being honest. I’m- I’m trying to be…” His voice peters off into a gulp as his gaze falls to his feet. His toes are pale where they clench around the short fabric of the carpet, but he can hardly feel it. All he hears is his father’s labored breaths and this foamy, constant static on his brain. “Since last year, I guess.” He whispers, besides himself. 

 

“Last year? That makes no sense, Lance. What about Nyma?” Moira asks. Lance tries to meet her eyes, but he can’t- he knows what he’ll see, and he knows he can’t face it right now. He looks instead at the television, where an anchorman is delivering the evening news with his booming voice and lying smile. 

 

“You don’t understand, Mama. I’m not  _ gay,  _ but I like women and men. I’m bisexual.” The only reason he can get the sentence out is because he knows he has to- if not for himself, then maybe he’s doing it with the hopes that someone else a long time from now will never have to. Maybe he’s doing it for them. But what does he know, right?

 

“What does that even  _ mean,  _ Lance?” Tom says, and he finally turns to face his son. His mother is still trying to read his mind, to understand.

 

_ But she never will.  _

 

“I- I just said-”

 

“Speak  _ up,  _ Lance.” 

 

“I just said, dad. It means I like women  _ and _ -” 

 

“ _ Do not say it again.”  _ Tom spits, and any of the courage Lance was trying muster gets shot to shit by the livid curl of his father’s lip. 

 

“Then what do you want me to say?” Lance asks, and finally lifts his head to settle his eyes on his father. The air in the room has chilled somehow, leaving goosebumps raised all over his bare arms and shoulders. His mother is still on the stairs, nightgown flourishing at her knees like a cassock from Sunday Morning Mass. 

 

“Nothing, mijo. Tom,” she turns to her husband slowly, “we should talk about this in the morning-”

 

Tom slams his palm against the wall, rattling the house with a  _ thump.  _ Moira jumps, hand flying to her mouth in shock. The jarring noise is enough to shock the first of Lance’s tears down his cheek, a sleek, warm droplet that slides down his face quickly before dangling at his pointed chin. 

 

“Where did I go wrong?!” Tom screams, and his eyes are alight like dark charcoal. “Tell me, Lance! What happened?” 

 

Lance lets his body do almost everything it wants: Tears begin falling quickly and silently down his gaunt face, hands fold into fists around the hem on either side of his shirt, and his chest begins to heave like he’s running a mile when really, only his heartbeat is. 

 

_ Don’t cry anymore.  _

 

He lets his body do almost everything it wants- except collapse into a sobbing mess on the floor, begging anyone to take him away from the horrible mess he started. 

 

_ Don’t cry.  _

 

He’ll never admit it, but he sees his friends in his eyelids when he blinks. Hunk and Pidge, conversing at lunch over everything their math teacher said wrong that day, having miniature food fights in the cafeteria, walking him home after school- and he thinks of Keith fucking Kogane, too. The rare smile and bad hair and amazing confidence in his step, and his inability to give a flying  _ fuck _ about what people think of him. 

 

_ Keith wouldn’t cry. Don’t cry.  _

 

_ Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry-  _

 

_ “Answer me, Lance!”  _ His father is still screaming, hitting the wall again to get his point across. Moira stays still. 

 

“There’s nothing… I’m not  _ wrong,  _ dad. You didn’t mess up, and neither did I.” 

 

“I beg to differ.” Tom spits, hand to the wall and still so, so angry. 

 

There’s more shuffling upstairs, and Lance knows it’s his siblings waking up from the commotion, sticking their noses in to listen any second now. 

 

The logical- and admittedly sometimes intelligent- part of Lance’s brain kicks in. 

 

_ Actually, Lance, you did mess up- about six minutes ago, when you confessed like an idiot.  _

 

“What’s goin on, Mama? Why is Lance crying?” A small voice asks, and the tears in Lance’s eyes spill over again because now he has an audience. 

 

“Lance is crying because he’s made a mistake, sweetie. Let’s go back to bed, yes?” Moira turns and leans down to address her youngest child Eileen, hefting the six year old onto her waist effortlessly. Two more children are further up the stairs, faces obscured by the darkness. “You two,” Moira looks between her husband and son, “settle this quietly.”

 

“Mama…” Lance tries, but his voice breaks into a sob as she and the kids disappear, and two very strong feelings fill his heart at once: 

 

_ This is really happening. I’m really here.  _

 

And:

 

_ I am alone.  _

 

His father finally moves from his spot at the base of the stairs, towards Lance- he supposes one of them had to, eventually- but he’s still angry, and irrational, and Lance probably should have noticed the beer bottles on the coffee table glinting in the light of the kitchen before he started all of this. 

 

“Lance, I can’t believe this. Of all the ways to go about life, after everything your mother and I taught you- you choose this? With everything you’ve learned from church, and the Bible, and  _ me _ , you should know better, Lance. How am I gonna explain this to the kids? Or my friends at work? Or the clergy?” Tom’s questions are one bullet each, spiking Lance’s vital organs and punctuated with another loud  _ thump,  _ this time on the end table next to the couch, just a few feet from Lance. 

 

“Can you at least let me explain?” Lance says, but his voice is still just above a whisper, no matter how badly he wishes he could scream. He can feel his very being deteriorating, melting under his father’s fire-and-brimstone glare and he keeps thinking,  _ this was not how it was supposed to go. _

 

“What’s there to explain? That you’re ruining  _ everything  _ you’ve built since you were born in the months before graduating? Huh? That you’re throwing everything, all of it, away?”

 

“No, dad, listen. You have me- all queer people- pinned like we’re- like we’re  _ choosing _ this like it’s goddamn grocery shopping and not a part of who we are-”

 

“Lance McClain, do not swear at me. And if you really want me to listen, you’d better stop associating yourself because I  _ can’t _ let you be involved in that, not so close to becoming a man.” 

 

Lance can hardly pick up on everything his father is saying anymore, but he can get a few words each time around because he was right earlier, he is drowning- choking, dying on a silence that lasted seventeen years, and under it the pressure of one man and his morals now spitting in his face like he’s a savage. 

 

“Who really is the savage here, though?” Lance doesn’t mean to whisper it but it slips out anyways, along with more tears and shaky breaths and  _ problems.  _

 

And again, ask him and he’ll say it never happened, but Keith wiggles into his head in the most serious of moments. 

 

_ Keith would say that this  _ is  _ becoming a man. _

 

_ Keith would stop crying and fight back.  _

 

_ Keith would be able to explain.  _

 

_ Keith would say fuck you.  _

 

_ Keith would help me.  _

 

_ Keith would.  _

 

“Lance? Are you even listening to me? For the love of God, Lance. Pay attention.” Tom says, snapping his pale fingers in Lance’s face like an unsatisfied customer. 

 

“What?” Lance asks, coming back to himself. He sniffles, letting his breath leave him in uneven waves. A tiny part of him that he hates (more than the rest) is relieved that his father’s fiery eyes seem to have dimmed a little. 

 

“I was saying that there’s ways to work around it, if necessary. I can get you a therapist, or some medication, maybe-” 

 

“Wait, what?” Lance’s brow furrows. 

 

“What do you mean, what?” An exasperated sigh precedes a short pause, and then:

 

“I’m sure there’s a way to keep you from being a faggot. We just have to find it.”

 

Before tonight, Lance would never have been able to tell you what it feels like to have your heart broken. He’s lost people before: from his abuela, to certain friends leaving him, to Nyma dumping him hard- but nothing, absolutely nothing, would and never will wrench his heart like those words leaving his father’s mouth. The physical pain settles somewhere deep in his ribcage, pulsing out from his heart through his body like blood and that was the only thing he could feel for a long, long, time. 

 

Lance can only stand there, blue eyes dazed as he tries to sort himself out. His father closes the distance between them, cupping Lance’s jaw with his rough palm and pulling him in for a hug. Lance doesn’t recuperate right away.

 

“Shush, it’s okay, There’s no need to cry, we can help you.” 

 

And Lance is tempted to agree, to subject himself to conversion therapy and self-hatred because that’s what dad wanted, and he’d do anything to please his family. For seventeen years, he’d done everything he could to please them- what’s a few more months, right?

 

_ Wrong,  _ something inside him says, and he knows that. He knows it’s wrong, and awful, and he should try harder to make him understand- but it’s a choice between that and living happily with his family, like he’s always done, what he’s always wanted. He can’t have both. 

 

“Okay, Lance?” His father pulls away and looks into his eyes, still reluctant. 

 

Lance makes his decision. 

 

“No, dad. No, I’m not. There’s nothing to fix. I’m gay, and I need you to see that that’s okay, and no amount of Jesus is going to change that. It doesn’t change me, or the family- it doesn’t.”

 

Lance makes his decision, and he immediately regrets it. How can’t he, when he sees that dangerous glint in his father’s eyes again and he hears his mind tell him that  _ your own father should not evoke a fight or flight response from you.  _

 

“Lance, I told you not to say that again, didn’t I?” Tom growls, and this time it really is a warning. He doesn’t try to avoid Lance’s gaze, and he uses his grip on Lance to his advantage, squeezing the boy’s arm, taunting. 

 

_ Nail in the coffin, Lance.  _

 

“I’m gay, dad. I’m gay, I’m gay, I’m- dad!” 

 

Lance has to cut himself off when his feet come off the ground, because his father is lifting him up by the underarm and parading him through the house. “Dad! What are you- doing-” He can barely breathe enough to yell, to fight back, because his throat is drying and tightening as the front door comes into view and he can foresee the next few moments like they’re straight out of a movie. He feels the urge to scream for his mother- maybe the only person who can help him now- but the loneliness at the sight of her walking back up the stairs reminds him that this is his burden, and she wasn’t here for him now. Not anymore, because- 

 

_ She backs him up like she always does.  _

 

There’s a struggle as they make their way through the foyer, but Tom is unaffected by the way Lance grabs at shelves and wallpaper with his free hand, trying to find purchase and  _ stop  _ this before it’s too late. Books and paperweights fall to the ground in their wake.

 

“Do me a favor, Lance,” Tom says when they arrive at the door. He rips it open with too much force, revealing the pitch-black rainy night outside with the piercing creak of the hinges. “Come back when you decide to stop ruining our lives.” 

 

Something about how easily the words roll off Tom’s snake tongue is what scares Lance the most as he’s lobbed outside. 

 

“Dad, please-!” 

 

The door slams shut. 

 

Lance can’t really control how he feels, but then again, when could he ever? The rain soaks his tank top and sweats as he lay where he fell onto the lawn. Mud and water are seeping into his underwear, between his toes and fingers, and into his hair- but he really can’t bring himself to care about catching a cold when he’s catching sight of his childhood home like he’s never seen it before- dark, unwelcoming, with hatred lurking behind closed white blinds. Those feelings come back:

 

_ This is really happening. I’m really here.  _

 

And:

 

_ I am alone.  _

 

He stands slowly, weakly, looking at the house and knowing damn well he doesn’t have the courage to walk back in there and face anyone, not anymore. 

 

So there’s nothing else to do but turn and stalk into the night, purposeless and pale as a ghost.

Somehow he walks a whole block, and then two, and then three and four, unknowing and uncaring of his destination. He doesn’t (read: can’t) look back, opting instead to count the raindrops that hit his shoulder blades and how long it takes for his bare feet to become completely numb on the wet sidewalks. 

 

Rain was always his favorite weather, after all. There was a sense of serenity and cleansing that came with it- less cars on the road and less people around, and that telltale smell that makes him wish he had bigger lungs to breathe more of it in. And despite the night’s events, Lance wouldn’t be Lance if he didn’t pull a clumsy, sad little pirouette or two as he walked, trying to enjoy the torrent for all it’s worth at the expense of his immune system.

 

(Didn’t seem to do much anyways, that system.)

 

Even when the dancing stops and the rain falls harder, chilling him to his core and buffeting him endlessly, Lance keeps walking, like there’s a monster behind him. 

 

_ Maybe there is.  _

 

He bites his lip and throws his arms around himself, a feeble attempt at retaining body heat. 

 

The rain does not let up. 

 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been walking when he comes to a stop at a small house, dimly lit in one window. There’s a flickering bug zapper on the porch, making small popping sounds every time a raindrop hits it, and it’s the only light he has to go by as he walks across the lawn to the front door. 

 

(And yes, Lance knows where his feet have brought him, and he’s really not that surprised.)

 

He knocks three times with a wild, shaky hand, and he knows he must be too cold to feel anything because his whole body is wracked with violent shivers whenever he looks down. His clothes are heavy with water, sticking to his skin and sapping him of his strength even more. He almost wants to laugh. 

 

_ I bet I look like such shit.  _

 

The door opens, and voila, there’s a grumpy, sleepy, and five-other-dwarves Keith fucking Kogane on the other side of it. 

 

“Keith, buddy. Pal. Friend. How’s it going?” Lance says, and his voice is one hundred percent not okay. 

 

Keith’s irritation evaporates into concern almost instantly, because the rest of Lance is also definitely not okay. 

 

“Lance? Holy shit…” Keith breathes, looking Lance up and down for a minute. He stays quiet.

 

“Yeah, hi Keith.” Lance croaks. “Look, um. I hate to be a downer, but d’you think I could come in? I can’t really feel my… anything.” 

 

“Oh shit, yeah. Yeah, c’mon.” Keith says, wrapping his hand around Lance’s bicep and pulling him inside quickly. Lance almost flinches at the contact- Keith feels like he’s burning Lance wherever he touches him. 

 

He lets Keith pull him through a living room with generic beige sofas and a mid-size TV, into a red-walled kitchen, down a long hallway, and into Keith’s bedroom at the back of the house. There’s not a lot of stuff in it- like, childhood stuff or anything, that is- most of the miniscule amounts of clutter is caused by clothes or textbooks, all stuff Lance has seen before. Keith sits down on the bed in the middle of the room, gesturing for Lance to follow. 

 

“Nah, it’s cool. I don’t wanna get your bed wet.” Lance says, standing awkwardly. Keith looks him up and down for a very long time, going as far as standing up to inspect him. Realization hits the pale boy like a truck, Lance can tell, because his eyes widen and then-

 

“Lance, did you fucking walk here?” He looks mad when he says it, and Lance has had enough of that tonight- but he doesn’t voice anything. 

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

 

“Okay,” Keith says, clearly frustrated, “but why? And-” he steps closer, bringing another searing hand to Lance’s face- “And are you crying? What the fuck happened?” He sweeps his palm up to Lance’s forehead. “Is that blood? Tell me what the fuck is going-” 

 

“Keith. Listen, it’s a long story.” Lance says, wrapping his long fingers around Keith’s wrist and pressing his face into Keith’s hand, because he’s starting to like the heat. “I’m really cold, I think- I can’t really feel, like I said- could I use your shower?” 

 

Keith doesn’t seem to hear it, violet eyes scanning Lance’s face with a very un-Keith-like amount of concern for Lance’s wellbeing. This is supposed to be Keith, who once let Lance jump off a swing at maximum height and try to land on a nearby set of concrete stairs in the middle of a park at one in the morning. Keith, who dared Lance to eat cafeteria tater tots doused in chocolate milk for a dollar and fifty cents. Keith, who’s  _ main thing _ is supposed to be that he  _ doesn’t _ care. 

 

“Of course, Lance,” Keith says after a while, finally releasing Lance’s face, “but afterwards you’re telling me everything.” He points to the bathroom door. “Towels are in the cabinet under the sink.”

 

Lance just nods solemnly. 

 

Once in the bathroom, Lance notices that he’s starting to get some feeling back- maybe it’s the warmth of the house, or the promise of a hot shower- and once he strips out of his clothes he looks at himself in the mirror above the sink. 

 

_ Not great.  _

 

Unless a cut on his forehead, finger-shaped bruises on his arm, and eyes reddened and foggy with tears are “great” in some off-white, fucked up world (like the kind he’s living in). 

 

He looks skinnier than he is, and he’s paler- the veins on his arms and legs are more prominent, normally hidden by his golden tan. There’s mud and dirt caked into pockets on his body, under his arms and between his legs and up in his hair, making him look like he just crawled out of a sewer. 

 

He turns away from his reflection as the tears threaten to fall again. 

 

_ Not at Keith’s house. Not after I failed so badly.  _

 

He sets the familiar faucet of Keith’s shower to almost maximum heat, half hoping it'll curb the hypothermia and half hoping it'll boil him alive, and steps under the even spray with a sigh. 

 

And suddenly he's back at home, under the spray of his own shower, singing along to the Bluetooth while his siblings tell him repeatedly to  _ shut up, you're not even that good!  _

 

But he's also feeling the rain again, relentless, only this time it's hotter and it hurts a little more. 

 

_ Ironic, isn't it?  _

 

He slides down the wall until he's seated in the tub, letting the water wash him away. At least its heat brings back the feeling to his body, draining all the coldness. He checks his feet and hands for any more secret injuries (he hadn't even known about his forehead until Keith pointed it out), and once he’s satisfied he folds into an upright fetal position, directly under the spray. 

 

He dozes off in the shower, evidently, because ten minutes later Keith comes banging on the bathroom door, complaining about his water bill- which, Lance concedes, is fair. 

 

“Lance! Come on dude. I love you and everything but Shiro and I can't pay a thousand dollar water bill.” 

 

So the shower ends, and Lance steps back in front of the mirror. He grabs a towel and wraps it around his waist, not bothering to dry off- instead he sits on the closed lid of the toilet, trying to quell himself. 

 

_ Come on. Not at Keith’s house.  _

 

“Keith?” Lance calls out, letting his head hit the wall behind him. 

 

“Yeah?” Keith’s voice is tiny from the other side of the door, like he's trying not to intrude. 

 

“Can I borrow some clothes?” 

 

“Of course shithead, what do you need?” 

 

“Everything.” 

 

Everything sails through the half open door; a white shirt and basketball shorts that are a little too small and a pair of underwear that are definitely too tight. Lance puts it on slowly once he's dry, not bothering to look in the mirror anymore- he'd seen enough. 

 

He walks out of the bathroom warm, comfortable, and adjusting the crotch of his pants. 

 

“Jesus, Keith. Do you have a micro penis or something? Why are your underwear so tight?” 

 

If anything, he's quipping just for the sake of acting like he's totally okay- which, as far as Keith should be concerned, he is. 

 

Keith, however, knows him, and sees right through his shit. 

 

“Nice try, but you need to explain yourself.” Keith says. He's sitting on his bed, leaning back against the headboard with a book in his lap. The lamp on his nightstand is on, the only light in the room save for the hints of headlights from the street every time a car passes out front. He pats the area in front of him with a stern look, and Lance wants to die. 

 

To be clear, he'd wanted to die for the last hour or so of the night, but here, specifically, he wants to huddle under a boulder and shy away from Keith’s fierce curiosity. 

 

But, for God knows what reason, he sits. 

 

“Did someone hurt you?” Keith asks after a minute, and Lance laughs humorlessly.  

 

“Something like that.” 

 

“Elaborate.” 

 

Lance takes a deep breath. 

 

He doesn't want pity, and he sure as hell doesn't want to be told how “okay” everything will be from here on- he wants- 

 

_ I don't know, really. Maybe food. And sleep.  _

 

“Can I get some water first?” He asks, and makes a face that he knows Keith can't say no to. 

 

The boy in question gets up with a huff, but Lance doesn't miss the guarded “of course, idiot” that comes with it. He comes back with a glass of water and Lance takes it casually, eyes distant. 

 

“Now elaborate.” 

 

Lance swallows. “I came out to my family.” 

 

He watches Keith put things together, sees the way his eyebrows twitch together and his jaw clenches a few times. His thinking face would normally be comical if Lance had the energy to smile; instead he simply waits.

 

“So you came out. That doesn't explain-” 

 

Keith stops dead. 

 

“The injury is my fault, really- I didn't land correctly when he threw me.” Even the darkest comic wouldn't laugh at Lance’s little joke, and most people who know him are used to the self-deprecating humor. 

 

“I can't believe this.” Keith says, placing his book on the nightstand and trying to catch Lance’s eye. Lance stares at the door deliberately. 

 

“Oh, shut up. Of course you can. So could I, and I'm the one who started it all.”

 

Lance is as startled as Keith at the harsh pessimism with which he speaks, and he turns towards Keith slowly. 

 

“That doesn't excuse anything. They're your family, Lance, they have to love you. This isn't normal.” Keith leans forward and places a gentle hand on Lance’s shoulder, squeezing. Grounding. 

 

“And what would you know, Keith?” Lance retorts, and it’s low, even for him. He was trying to be as composed as possible, trying not think about it- but Lance was Lance, every attempt at apathy ended pathetically. 

 

Keith just squeezes harder, ignoring him, and Lance wants him to hold on nearly as bad as Keith does. 

 

“I know you deserve better. Did you hit your head hard?” 

 

“No. I think I just nicked a pebble on the lawn or something. I dunno, it was dark, so.” 

 

Keith scoots forward, hand moving to Lance’s bicep. “Let me get this straight. You told your family you were bi, and your dad responded by physically throwing you out onto the lawn in the middle of a rainstorm, at eleven o'clock at night.” 

 

“I was there, Keith, thanks for the instant replay.” 

 

It's silent for a moment as Keith stares at the floor. 

 

“I'm gonna kill him.” It's the very resolute and near-cheerful tone in his flat voice that, for some reason, almost breaks Lance. 

 

As Keith stands up to  _ actually  _ go kill Lance’s dad (and Lance doesn't doubt he would), Lance grabs at his wrist with a plea in his eyes, finally breaking his stoney mask. Keith looks back at him angrily, unwilling to soften at Lance’s expression. 

 

“Keith… don’t.” Lance pulls him back down to the bed, much closer to him. “It’s not his fault, okay? It's mine. I shouldn't have said anything…” He trails off again when the fire in Keith’s eyes returns, and the pale boy shoots back up. 

 

“Shut the fuck up, Lance. It's not your fault for being you. He should try to-” 

 

“Try to what, Keith? Understand? Respect me? Don't be unrealistic, and don't be cliche. This isn't a movie.” And when he worries that he sees a flash of “sorry” in Keith’s eyes, Lance waves a hand. “And  _ don't  _ pity me. I did this to myself, I need to get over it.” 

 

Keith releases the tension in his shoulders, letting his body sag under his black tee, as if he’s exasperated against Lance’s logic.  “Lance, I still think someone should talk to them. I mean, you're their  _ son-”  _

 

“ _ Keith.”  _ Lance says, and for once in his life he knows he sounds like he could kick someone's ass. He blinks the sadness from his eyes because he  _ knows  _ better, and because  _ this is Keith we’re talking about _ . “It's done, okay? It's over. I don't want to talk about it anymore.” 

 

“Lance…” Keith whispers, and he brings a hand up to caress Lance’s face, and there's that _stupid_ _fucking look again._ Lance pushes the hand away violently, and turns his whole body away from his friend. 

 

“I knew I should've went somewhere else, or stayed out in the rain, or just fucking killed myself or  _ something _ , because I knew you'd be like this.” 

 

“Like what?” Keith says, and now he's playing a game Lance knows very well. It's the “try to sound okay when someone just ruined you” game. And Lance feels like he’s the ruiner. 

 

“With your tiger-mom, dumbass, fight the world bullshit. That, and your pity.” 

 

_ Pity would come from anyone, though.  _

 

“I  _ would  _ fight the world for you, Lance,” Keith says, jabbing at Lance’s cold shoulder, “and right now I know one asshole to start with.” 

 

“Shut  _ up,  _ Keith.”

 

“Hell no! You  _ know _ I won’t let him think he’s in the right- and why aren’t you angrier?” 

 

_ Keith is so interesting when he’s riled up like this,  _ Lance thinks, because Keith is somehow looking ready to murder and ready to tuck Lance into bed at the same time. 

 

“He  _ is  _ in the right Keith.” Lance says, and Keith’s deepening scowl is no surprise. “As far as he’s concerned, he’s right and always will be. This is all my fault.” He looks down at his lap;  _ fuck _ , he can feel the tears coming. 

 

“Lance. Look at me.” Keith says, and something about Lance’s mood must have changed him because he’s not angry, or pitying, or sad- he’s wearing a face Lance has only seen a handful of times on him. “You’re never to blame for being Lance McClain. Everything about who you are is just as perfect as everything about who I am, or who Pidge is, or Hunk or Allura or Shiro. We’re all human, so if you want to be sad, be sad- don’t ever try to hide from me- and most of all, Lance fucking McClain,  _ stop blaming yourself. _ ”

 

Lance should’ve guessed that Keith would be the one breaking the dam- he can feel a familiar swell inside him- but that’s not what he  _ wants _ , and  _ he’ll  _ fight the fucking world if it means Keith won’t see him like this. 

 

The hardwood floor is chilling under his feet as he marches to the door. Despite Keith’s speech he’s still desperate to run, still ashamed. 

 

_ I’m so fucking weak. I’m weak, and stupid for thinking this could go well.  _

 

Keith’s house isn’t big- it can’t be when the two tenants are a college student with only his parents’ support and a senior in high school who works at the McDonald’s down the street- but it’s big enough for Lance to pretend he can escape Keith. He pads down the hallway, off-white walls lined with photos of Shiro and Keith since they met in childhood that steal his attention every time he’s here. Shiro and Keith playing in the sprinklers, Shiro and Keith wrestling on the living room floor, Shiro and Keith side by side when Shiro graduated high school. Shiro and Keith with their lifetime of memories, and suddenly the little still-shots of domesticity that Lance has seen many times before are hitting him hard with helplessness. 

 

_ Am I ever gonna see my baby photos again?  _

 

He rounds into the kitchen, where there’s fewer photos of Keith and fewer pangs of regret in his head. The cream tiles on the floor are colder than the hardwood, prompting Lance to walk on the balls of his feet as he approaches the fridge, trailing his hand along the wall as he goes. He sits against it like he sat against the slick walls in the shower, knowing that the stainless steel wasn’t gonna actually make him feel any better- but he supposes he knew that in the shower, too. 

 

He sits and sits and sits, holding his head in his hands and occasionally glancing at the clock on the oven in its bleary green figures. Underneath everything else he’s been feeling, there’s an overwhelming weariness slowly creeping up on him, and whether that’s from the emotional exhaustion, the long walk, or just the general stress of being alive, he doesn’t know. He’s just  _ tired, _ honestly. 

 

_ Tired.  _

 

Keith walks in after a few minutes more, silent as ever. 

 

He slumps against the brown cabinets next to fridge until he’s level with Lance, keeping considerable distance between them. Lance can’t see his eyes from this angle, his face shadowed by his mullet of hair, but he can hear the soft sound of even breathing compared to his own overemotional heaving. 

 

“I just called Shiro.” Keith says after a second, and he’s smiling, Lance can hear it. “I had to, because I’ve always been such shit at making you feel better. Making people feel better, I mean.” 

 

Lance exhales through his nose. “And?”

 

“And, we’re both very lucky that he risked getting in trouble with his professor to act as my impulse control, because otherwise I’d be halfway to your place by now.”

 

Lance hums, imagining Keith storming across his lawn with rain and wind whipping at his hair.

 

“He told me to check myself, and to stop trying to tell you what you want. So we’re not gonna talk about it anymore, okay?”

 

In lieu of an answer, Lance inches closer and lays his head on Keith’s shoulder. 

 

“But, I do have just one question.” He says, and Lance nods his consent, letting his eyes droop closed. 

 

“You’ll be okay, right Lance?”

 

Lance knows why he’s asking, and he knows it’d be smarter to stay silent and let this monstrous night end- but he’s just  _ gotta _ have the last word, and he’s gotta make it count. 

 

“Meh.” 

 

\--

 

So what?

 

Maybe they fall asleep on the kitchen floor, only to wake up with sore backs and an alarming amount of drool on Keith’s shirt. 

 

Maybe Lance feels marginally better after being close with someone, even if it’s Keith, of all people.

 

Maybe Lance can learn to draw up a plan and respect himself a little more, and understand that it’s really not his fault.

 

And maybe Lance feels stupid for the little flutters of his heart when Keith, who’s so  _ not _ a morning person, pops bread in the toaster and cereal in a bowl for their “wholesome breakfast”. 

 

Maybe Lance smiles silly when Keith impersonates their math teacher and his surly moustache that  _ has  _ to be fake. 

 

And maybe, Lance sits on the countertop with his legs spread apart, and Keith is between them as he brushes the crumbs off Lance’s mouth.

 

Maybe they kiss like that, quick and chaste and only because it’s right, and there’s  _ definitely  _ no chance that it’ll happen again.

 

And maybe, just maybe, it happens again. And again, and again and again throughout the day. 

 

So what? Lance is a little damaged, but at least now he knows he’ll be okay.   
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hello!!!
> 
> This is my first posted Klance fic. I literally have EIGHT other WIPs, all fics that I've never felt were worthy enough for posting, and it's funny to me that after all that work for like four months, it's this fic (that i wrote in the span of a week) that becomes my first contribution to the fandom. 
> 
> On a bit of a more serious note, please remember that homophobia as it is shown in this fic is a very real thing, and as dramatically as it may seem like it's represented here, i believe it's really important that we all take it at face value and fight to see it ended (especially in the wake of this election y'all) ;^;
> 
> Lastly, you can find me at calicothunder.tumblr.com, I'm always open to meet new people and talk about anything!!!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, comments and feedback are 3453634% appreciated!!!!!!!!!


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